Unconscious
by editorbit
Summary: If it weren't for the subtle rise and fall of his chest, Jeremiah would think the man before him is dead - once again.


Jerome is sprawled out on the floor in the small, empty room. He's unconscious. If it weren't for the subtle rise and fall of his chest, Jeremiah would think the man before him is dead - once again. He isn't though and Jeremiah isn't sure if that's a reassuring fact or a disappointing one.

He looks dead, very dead in fact. His skin is pale, his face scarred and is to never look like his own ever again and his body is unmoving and limp. He hasn't moved at all from the spot they - him and Ecco - had dropped him off a little while ago. They'd originally planned on just dropping him there and leaving him, wait until he woke up and then proceed to ignore him until further notice. Jeremiah had returned a short moment later though.

It wasn't everyday one got the chance to get this close to Jerome without the chance of getting injured. Jeremiah is not about to let the chance slip. Furthermore, frisking the man might also be a good idea, considering this is in fact Jerome, someone with plenty of tricks up his sleeve - quite literally.

The idea is proved to be a good one, because up Jerome's sleeve - the first place he checks - is a switchblade. Of course Jerome is someone who carries a switchblade up his sleeve. Well, not anymore. Jeremiah places it in his pocket, making a mental note of putting it away later.

Jeremiah then searches every pocket of Jerome's suit, from pants to jacket, inside and outside. His touches are light and careful, patting Jerome's pockets down just enough to feel if anything's inside and barely moving the fabric as he sticks his hand inside them. He doesn't find much, an odd blade here and there and a chapstick. He figures Ecco might have rid his brother of any obvious weapons before she brought him here and he pulls away. Leaning back on his heels, hands on his thighs, he sits and looks at the unconscious man.

There's an oddly peaceful expression on his face. Jeremiah wonders if he's dreaming, and if so, what about. Does Jerome ever dream? Does he ever sleep? For the past however many years Jerome has created chaos in this city, the fact that Jerome hasn't just wreaked havoc all day everyday hasn't really crossed his mind. Sleeping seems too human, too normal, and dreaming even more so.

Assuring himself that his brother is in fact not asleep - and in that case not very likely to wake up - but knocked unconscious, he scoots ever so slightly closer on his knees and peers at Jerome's body. He's dressed in an... interesting suit. Jeremiah wonders where he got it, but concludes a moment later it's probably stolen.

Jerome's face is full of scars and it's odd to finally get to see them up close and not through the tv screen. They look even more grotesque in real life and Jeremiah wants to touch them, see what they feel like. His hand pauses halfway and he has to tell himself once again that Jerome is not going to wake up anytime soon. Judging by the bump on his head, he's going to be out for at least a few hours.

Gentle fingers run down the side of Jerome's face, tracing the scar where his face had been cut off. It felt bumpy and weird. Jerome had clearly not taken care of the wounds. Well, he had stitched his face on with a stapler at some point. Jeremiah had been less than surprised. Of course his brother had thought stapling it back on would do the trick.

He traces his fingers over what is clearly scratch marks. The wounds have probably gotten infected at some point, though Jeremiah suspects nothing had been done about it.

Lastly his fingers trace the stretched lips, pulled into a big smile. Even knocked out Jerome looks taunting. The forced smile added to the pale, slightly discoloured skin and the lack of movement, makes him look dead. He looks like a corpse. A cadaver. And he should be one, yet here is. Alive. Even death can't stop him, nor a cut off face.

Though, Jeremiah figures he's more of a ghost - or maybe a poltergeist would be more fitting - of some sort. Not completely dead and gone, but not really alive either, and not to mention the feeling of his brother almost haunting him since the day he left.

Jeremiah stays there for a moment, eyeing his brother's messed up face. He's barely recognisable really. If it weren't for the hair, the eyes and the voice - though that's also changed a lot - Jeremiah wouldn't recognise him. He's changed a lot since he'd killed, murdered, their mother all those years ago, all the while Jeremiah had gotten some new glasses and perhaps grown a tiny bit.

While Jerome sat in Arkham, Jeremiah sat in school.

While Jerome has been killing both family members and random citizens, Jeremiah has been drawing blueprints.

While Jerome created chaos, Jeremiah created his new life.

They are nothing alike anymore. No one will ever glance at Jeremiah's face bereft of his glasses and mistake him for Jerome ever again like when they were younger and looked as alike as ever. Jeremiah doesn't mind that. He doesn't ever want to be associated with this crazy maniac. He doesn't want anyone ever thinking him and Jerome are anything alike, because they aren't. Jerome smashes, slaughters and screws things up. Jeremiah is nothing like him, nor will he ever be.

Jeremiah wonders what life would have been like if they had been more like each other, or should he say, if Jerome had been more like him.

There's a twitch. Jeremiah barely catches it as it had been quite subtle, but he immediately pulls away, not taking any chances. His heart rate picks up and he rushes to get to his feet, ready to bolt out the door any second. He doesn't realise he's holding his breath until his lungs start protesting. He stares down at the body before him, hand ready to grab the door and eyes fixated on the scarred lips that had twitched ever so slightly a moment ago.

He doesn't calm down until he's sure Jerome's still unconscious, which takes a few minutes. No movements are made during those long, stressful minutes and he finally sits back down. It was just his imagination, he tells himself, toying with the chapstick still in his hand.

He takes a look at it, finally taking his eyes off Jerome. Strawberry. Jeremiah lets out an amused little noise. How not like Jerome. A strawberry flavoured one of all things. The flavour least like Jerome, everything he isn't. Sweet, pleasant and not to mention good.

At least it seems like he's taking care of his dry lips.

"You planning on using that?"

Jeremiah's grip loosens and the chapstick falls into his lap and onto the floor. His eyes don't leave his now empty hand as thoughts rush through his head. Most of them tell him he's hearing things, that he's imagining things, that Jerome is still knocked out cold. His own attempts of calming himself down fail as in the corner of his eyes a hand reaches for the chapstick rolling over the cold hard floor.

That was Jerome's voice. It sounded a bit off, like he was waking up from having been knocked out, but it was his. He heard it as clear as day. He dreads looking up, dreading meeting his brother's eyes and facing him after what? Fifteen years?

After what feels like several minutes, but are in fact mere seconds, Jeremiah lifts his gaze to meet his brother's. He can see the grin already, hear his chuckle, feel his eyes on him. His chest tightens as his heart rate picks up once again. His eyes almost feel heavy as they trail all the way up Jerome's body, his glove covered hands, his light coat, dark vest and patterned tie.

His eyes meet nothing but closed eyes, relaxed lips and last but not least, empty hands. Turning his head ever so slightly he catches a glimpse of his own hand, clutching the chapstick in an iron grip.

Placing the tube in Jerome's limp hand, dropping it like it's burning him, he rises and leaves the room in three long, quick steps. He shuts and locks the door behind him before resting against it. He breathes deeply, calming down his heart and stopping the sound of blood rushing in his ears.

Once he's sure he can actually speak, he calls for Ecco. He needs whiskey.


End file.
